A whole history could be written of Mars in science fiction, that small reddish planet of war and blood. Cosmology did not admit the possibility that it could be occupied until Earth ceased to be the center of a very small universe composed of intermeshing crystal spheres whose functions, as far as anyone could tell, were to admit and filter the stellar rays of sanguinity, joviality, mercurialness, and so on; and yet even after Copernicus and Bruno had shattered those spheres and transformed the universe into a vast alien place, we were certain that the natives of Mars had to be at least a little bit martial.

Or at least there. It seemed impossible to think of a Mars without dangerous aliens (Wells), mystical aliens (Burroughs), dead aliens (Bova), unfallen aliens (Lewis), vanished aliens

Ah, Mars.

There is no denying that something lovely happens whenever an author dedicates enough thought and effort to write a whole series of books. Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars trilogy (Red Mars, Green Mars, and Blue Mars) is no exception.